Recently, I bumped into one of Britain’s leading classical actresses (I have had a life outside of motor racing). We did the whole “luvvie” thing, which you have to do when you meet an actress: we did darling, darling, darling, hug, hug, hug, and we did kiss, kiss, kiss. I’ve never minded that bit with actresses. They can do it to me every hour, on the hour.
When I got my breath back, I said to her, “Do you remember that very pleasant evening when we were both at a one-woman show in a cellar?” Since I speak of Chichester, epicenter of the universe, the cellar was a 12th Century crypt.
